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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164450">the voices in my head, they say a lot of things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyasteria/pseuds/rosyasteria'>rosyasteria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Hearing Voices, Hurt Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), aka techno struggles with the voices in his head calling for violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:47:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyasteria/pseuds/rosyasteria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days the voices didn’t listen. They didn’t let up. They screamed instead of whispered, relentless, assaulting his ears until they bled.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Technoblade &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>467</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the voices in my head, they say a lot of things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Techno worked so hard.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">He spent months, </span> <em> <span class="s2">months </span> </em> <span class="s1">going into hiding. He ignored the news Phil brought from L’Manburg, knowing if he caught wind of any signs of weakness that the voices would revolt and make his head throb until he gave in. The voices weren’t always bloodthirsty, sometimes they comforted him. Some days they kept him up until his body shut down, other times they soothed him to sleep.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil built him a beehive with a viewing deck. It was one of the things that the voices would cheer over other than bloodshed.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The white of the snow blinded him most days, it gave the voices the same satisfaction that the garish red of blood did, the same harsh brightness registering in his brain like a placebo. Techno liked busying himself. The voices grew quiet when his hands were full and brain was preoccupied. He cooked dinner with Phil most days, the two laying blankets out atop the snow in front of Carl’s stable as they ate. Baking bread was one of the things that brought him joy. It was a simplistic task. That and going hunting. The fact that the bread dough felt like caked blood when it got stuck beneath his fingernails might have played a part in his calm disposition, but he wouldn’t tell Phil that.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Techno had the voices to thank for many things. They saw things he couldn’t, would warn him of an oncoming danger, would whisper things in his ears and urge his muscles to work when he froze up out of panic. But they also numbed him. Techno found himself gripping the sharp edge of an emerald just to feel something more than once, not even flinching at the sting as gold blood trickled down his closed fist and dropped onto his trotters. Once, Phil had to bring Techno down from one of those occasions, and he still had the scar on his neck from where Techno had lashed out in panic and used the gem to slash at his father’s throat. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Over the months of retirement he’d started up a project for new clothing. He’d worn the same uniform his entire adulthood, and it was worn out. With no one coming to bother him thanks to the snowstorm cover, Techno busied his hands sewing new clothes, an icy blue rendition of the same uniform he and Phil had back when they were home. He made a set for himself and his father, but stashed away a matching set for Tommy, not really knowing why. Every time the needle pricked his fingertips the voices lost volume a slight. Even then they called for blood, whether it be his own or his enemies’.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sometimes he blocked the voices out by getting busy.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sometimes he begged.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some days the voices didn’t listen. They didn’t let up. They screamed instead of whispered, relentless, assaulting his ears until they bled. So Techno built a bunker. Each wither skull set on the wall was one less voice clawing at his brain, so he killed and killed until he got reprieve, until the heat of the nether got to him and Phil had to pull him out of the underworld and give him an ice bath in the nearby pond. It was enough to hold the malicious tendencies of the voices back until the Butcher Army came for him.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He knew they would. Eventually. It was a given. He set withers on them, aided his brother in blowing their country to kingdom come, and he didn’t regret it. After that, the voices had disappeared and he’d felt a sort of relief he’d never felt in his entire life. So he retired and built a home, until the voices had come back with vigour. He’d been fighting them for so long. He had argued with himself until his voice grew hoarse, lain in the snow with no outer clothing and let the burn of the snow quell the voices for a little while. That night Phil had found him and carried him inside, thoroughly pissed off and upset, worried about how far his eldest would go for an hour of mental rest.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Techno knew the voices wouldn’t relent.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Please. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Please </span> </em> <span class="s1">don’t make me kill all of you.” He’d said to the Butcher Army, fingers itching to fight and hurt and kill. It pulled at his teeth and stabbed at his gums for him to get the words out, felt like lashes to his back, like his skin was on fire. His armour weighed down on his shoulders, heavy, a burden. The voices weren’t asking. They were telling. Ordering. Techno watched as the Butcher Army stared him down, weapons in hand. He was breathing heavy, he knew they believed they had the upper hand, yet the voices were crooning in his ears.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">Go on.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">You need this.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">It’s all you’ve ever wanted.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">It won’t take long.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">You ache for this.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was the breaking point. It felt as if a rock had fallen and cracked his skull open, letting the voices out. They seemed to coalesce around him, taking shape like the white puffs of air coming from his mouth as he breathed heavy.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he leapt forth and lashed out, blood thrumming in his ears as the high of potions sunk into his skin, the voices cheered. Their sharp tongues caressed his body as he spilled blood onto the snow, a soothing comfort not unlike how a hug from Phil felt.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Think of all the horrors you promised them you’d bring.</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The voices were satisfied with the bloodshed. And when Techno </span> <em> <span class="s2">refused </span> </em> <span class="s1">to die and was propositioned by Alex? The voices egged Techno on. His fingers twitched around the pickaxe, skin itchy beneath the iron armour. He licked the blood from his upper lip where his tusks had cut it from him gritting his teeth.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you really think you can take me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh I do.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The voices were pleased.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They soothed his aching bones once he’d smashed the man’s teeth in, his face caved in its entirety, bleeding sluggishly onto the stone before it faded into vapour. Techno didn’t even grimace at the gore left behind, chips of bone and teeth sticking to his clothes, blood staining the cavern and the armour he wore. The bile rising up into his throat was pushed back down. It was over.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The voices had won.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi ! im link, im an 18 year old nonbinary college student from england and writing is one of my favourite hobbies so i love posting to make other people happy!</p><p>my twitter is @BUHBENRY if you want to give me a follow!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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